


nor clean the blood

by mazily



Category: Holby City
Genre: Elinor Lives, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-09-26 21:27:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9922790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mazily/pseuds/mazily
Summary: It's Serena's idea.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is flash fiction for the writer who takes over a week to write flash fiction: no beta, no cookie, just sitting down in small increments on an not-really-daily basis and getting words out on the page until finally a thing appears. 
> 
> I dared myself to write something silly about Elinor faking her own death. Somehow sadness still crept in. Title pilfered from Edna St. Vincent Millay.

Serena cries at the funeral. She'd thought perhaps she wouldn't be able to, would feel--off, somehow, or like the imposter she is, but in the end everything feels all too real. Elinor is gone, after all: driven away by some of Bernie's ex-Army buddies in the middle of the night, hidden and distant and--just gone. Serena wants to scream. To rage. To punch Edward in his alcohol-flushed, dry eyed, face. Even Liberty's shed a few tears, false though they probably are. 

"Serena," Bernie hisses.

Serena's hands clench into fists. Her shoulders tense. Her legs feel ready to march her across the church, strong and sure. One swing, just one--

"Serena," Bernie repeats. Hand at Serena's left elbow, mouth practically kissing her ear.

Serena exhales. Promises herself that she'll confront Edward later, when there's not a crowd of people watching. When she can do him some proper harm while she screams and screams. She lets Bernie lead her toward the last group of mourners. Ric (she tries not to think of his son, tries not to let the guilt grow exponentially beneath her breast, the knowledge that Elinor is safe in an unknown country right now, probably drinking far too much of the local alcohol) offers a hand, which morphs into an awkward sort of hug. Zosia pulls Serena into a hug that won't end. Serena eventually makes it down the line of friends and colleagues, Bernie's hand at the small of her back the only thing keeping her upright by the end.

"Alright then," Bernie says. "To Albie's for drinks then."

It sounds like an order. Serena obeys.

*

It's Serena's idea, based on a storyline off one of those American soaps she'd become fond of during her time at Harvard. She explains it over a couple of bottles of Shiraz while Elinor sulks in the corner of the sofa like a teenager, hunched over and wrapped around herself. Her socks don't match. Serena wants nothing more than to hold her tight, to never let her go.

"Right," Serena says, trying to ignore Bernie's ridiculous laugh, "So after getting into trouble with the mob, they faked their deaths and went into hiding, is the short of it. It would mean an absolute abuse of hospital privileges, which I am willing to undertake because you are my daughter and I love you, but if paying them back didn't work--"

Elinor frowns. It's practically audible. "You know it didn't. I  _ told _ you it didn't."

"--well it's the best plan I can come up with, at any rate." She already knows Elinor doesn't have any other ideas; they'd talked it out after Elinor used her Christmas money from Edward to try to buy her way out of debt to the drug cartel she'd found herself embroiled with. It was more than enough, even counting interest, but apparently mobsters don't forgive immature young women who try to create student films about them. Without permission. And hint that they have a big media buyer lined up. Serena turns to Bernie. "Feel free to chime in with a better plan if you have one."

Bernie shrugs. "Sorry," she says. "Other than reporting this all to the police"--Serena opens her mouth to explain, again, to argue, and Bernie places her palm over it--"which we have already discussed, and dismissed, as a plan, I think your rather ridiculous addiction to American telly may be the only--"

Serena licks her palm. Bernie's mouth stops. 

"I wasn't addicted," Serena argues. 

"Addicted to," Bernie says, not letting Serena finish. "I bet you had it set up to record every episode, just in case you missed a day. Had a whole box of VHS tapes you gave away when you moved back home."

"It's important to have some sort of release," Serena explains. "Other than drinking, of course."

"Oh, of course," Bernie says. All feigned innocence and belief.

"And don't think I won't find out what programs Marcus recorded for you while you were overseas," Serena counters.

"Nothing American, I can tell you that much," Bernie says. 

Elinor sighs dramatically, then keeps on doing so until Serena turns to glare at her. "Oh, finally remembered I'm in the room, did you?" Elinor says, "It's only my fate you're turning into some sort of perverse--"

"No, it's only your own bloody fault that we're trying to work out the logistics of a truly pants plan to fake your death--honestly, does no one have a better idea?--to get you free of some sort of mafia goons you've offended with your student filmmaking," Serena says.

Bernie laughs. Coughs in a rather puerile attempt to cover it up. 

"Right," Serena says, "For that, you're in charge of logistics."

"Rather thought I would be anyway," Bernie says. "I've some ex-special forces blokes that owe me a couple of favors, thought they might be able to secret Elinor away after we finish at the hospital."

*

She doesn't punch Edward. The empty glass she throws at him smashes against the wall in a shower of glass; Liberty screams, Edward dodges, the only person to get hurt is Serena herself when she cleans up the mess.

"Serena," Bernie says. 

Serena can't stop watching the line of blood running down her finger, red and--well, alive. Heart still pumping, blood flowing. She can feel her pulse, strong and sure, throughout her body. The house is suddenly silent. Still. 

" _ Serena. _ " Bernie touches Serena's shoulder, and Serena starts. Edward and Liberty's argument flares into full volume, and Serena's eyes well up with tears. Bernie's hand slides down to Serena's elbow, then her uninjured hand. Serena tangles her fingers with Bernie's, and she begins leading her to the kitchen. "Let's go fix that up," she says.

Serena follows her into the kitchen and sits obediently at the table. She watches Bernie as she pulls the first aid kit from the cabinet. Watches Bernie wash her hands, humming under her breath. They're alone for what feels like the first time in years, in a lifetime, and Serena could watch Bernie just sit there and breathe. 

"Elinor's fine," Bernie says, elbowing the faucet off and turning to face her. "Call came in while you got it into your head to start training for the bloody discus that she's in a former Communist satellite--all the information I could get I'm afraid--and being awful about internet access."

Serena laughs. Winces at the sound it makes--wet and terrible. She can't look away from the lines of Bernie's body as she braces herself against the counter. Pushes off and crosses back to Serena like she's approaching something wild and dangerous, but somehow well-loved.  

"Come on," Bernie says, "Give us your finger."

Serena holds out her hand. Bernie leans forward, squints--

"Shall I fetch your reading glasses?" Serena asks.

"Hush, you."

\--and pulls the bit of glass from Serena's finger. Cleans the cut, bandages it. Kisses Serena's finger and says, "There, all better."

Serena blinks back the tears that threaten to fall. Threaten to incapacitate her, drop her to the floor in grief and ugly red-faced crying. She hates crying. Hates the way it feels, how it overtakes her entire body, how controlling and painful it is. 

"Really," she says, when she feels the mere act of opening her mouth won't cause her to break down. She smirks. Eyes Bernie, looks her up and down until Bernie's cheeks flush. " Surely that's not the best you can do."

"Well," Bernie says. She takes a step forward, pulls Serena to her feet.

"Yes, Ms. Wolfe?" 

Bernie presses her lips to Serena's: once, twice, light as air and barely touching. Teasing until Serena practically growls, fingers tangling in Bernie's hair, teeth sharp against Bernie's lower lip. 

*

They smuggle Elinor out through the morgue. Bernie's Army mates--three young men, each bigger than the next--meet them at a back door with a hearse and a folder full of official-looking paperwork. 

"These are all filed online too," one of them says, "Will pass muster with just about anyone." He's probably the oldest of the lot, and he can't be much older than Cameron. Serena tries not to think about why he's been invalided out. Why he's doing this favor for a woman old enough to be his mother rather than, well, something else. Something fun. 

"Thanks, Mr.--," Serena says.

"Smith," he says. "No Mr. necessary." He gestures at his mates, pointing at them as they wave at her. "Ginger over there's Jones and the fellow going to ride in back with your Elinor's Taylor."

"Right," Serena says, "Thank you all for--" She puts the folder in her bag. Slides into the back seat, Bernie slipping in directly behind her. They sit thigh to thigh. Serena begins to shake, and Bernie offers her hand: palm up, knuckles barely brushing the spot just above Serena's knee. 

"You all set, Major?" Smith asks. 

"Right-o," Bernie says.

The car pulls away, and Bernie continues to discuss their plan with the boys. Serena can't focus on what they're saying; tries to, shapes each individual work in her head, but nothing sticks. All she can think about is Elinor in the back, huddled in the dark. The little girl who once threatened to take scissors to Serena's mother's furs because she was against animal cruelty. The baby, purple and miserable and screaming, who refused to latch onto Serena's breast.

The car slows, stops alongside a nondescript black car in a funeral home parking lot. Serena blinks away her tears. Squeezes Bernie's hand. Her heart is going jackrabbits under her ribs, and she wonders if this is what it feels like to go into tachycardia. 

Smith turns back to face them, car still idling. "You can have a couple minutes to say goodbye to your Elinor," he tells Serena, checking his watch. "There's a natural CCTV dead spot up to the park, but past that we've rolling blackouts set to go off on schedule."

Serena nods. "Right."

The car door opens, and Elinor flings herself into Serena's lap. "Mum," she says. Her nose is red, eyes puffy. She wipes her nose against Serena's shoulder and sniffles loudly. Serena runs her hand through Elinor's hair, tries to memorize the bumps of her skull and the way her hair tangles around Serena's fingers. 

"Ellie," Serena says. She kisses Elinor's head, her forehead, each eye in turn. Elinor smiles: that brash, brave smile that got her through scraped knees and missed curfews alike. Serena smiles back. Tries to. "Don't think this gets you out of finally going to the Amalfi coast with your mother."

Elinor barks a short laugh. "We'll go for your 70th birthday do next year," she says. 

"Cheeky," Serena says. She takes Elinor's face between her hands, looks her in the eyes. "I love you." 

She wraps her arms around her little girl and holds her tight, can't think of anything else to do but hold her and rock them both back and forth and force herself not to cry, until Bernie places her palm between Serena's shoulder blades. Says, quietly, "Serena, I'm sorry, it's--" 

"Me too," Elinor says. And then she's gone.

*

Serena pushes Bernie up against the door the moment it clicks shut, Liberty's perfume still lingering in the air after their last round of farewells. Kisses her, dirty as she can, long and hot and bruising. Her thigh between Bernie's legs, fingers tripping over themselves to unbutton Bernie's trousers. She pushes at Bernie's hands when Bernie tries to touch her, to reciprocate, until Bernie seems to understand enough to keep her arms at her sides.   

"Good," Serena says, pulling back to look down at Bernie's strained arms. Her closed fists.

She presses a quick kiss to the corner of Bernie's mouth--she can't help herself, wants to kiss her and make her beg for it all at once--and steps away. Bernie blinks. Sways. Her face is flushed, and her breath is sharp and uneven. Trousers unbuttoned and halfway down her hips, shirt wrinkled from Serena's hands. 

Serena's cheeks, neck, chest all warm in an instant; her entire body goes hot. 

She toes off the heels she'd put on to help carry some of the food that keeps multiplying in her kitchen to Edward's car. Kicks them to the side. They clatter against the baseboards, probably leaving marks, but Serena can't bring herself to care about marks with Bernie still and watching and stood there like something out of Serena's fantasies.

"You do know they'll scuff," Bernie says. Serena raises an eyebrow. "It's just you're always on about taking proper care--"

"Bernie," Serena says. 

"Serena." Bernie looks at Serena like a dare. Serena can feel her seeing right into her. 

"Oh, do be quiet," Serena says. 

Bernie makes a show of closing her mouth--teasing, smirking, giving Serena what she needs as always. Serena grins back: free and open, unstoppable really. She's always been drawn to Bernie. An autonomic reaction. 

She wonders for a moment if she oughtn't have kept her shoes on after all, made them more of a height, but Bernie tilts her head down a fraction, looks at Serena through her ridiculous fringe, and Serena stops second-guessing. Steps back into Bernie's space and pulls her head down into something resembling a kiss. 


End file.
